“Tell me, sweetheart, then,” he said—“tell me in your own way, what is it? Nothing very serious, is it?” There was a suggestion of laughter in his voice.
“It is very serious, Tom.”
“Yes?”
“It—it concerns you—me and you—our future.”
“Yes, dear, then it is serious.” The laughter was gone; there came a look of fear, of anxiety into his eyes.
It could not be that she was going to discard him, turn him down, end it all now? But she was.
“Tom, it is only right and honest of me to tell you that—that”—her voice shook—“that I have made a mistake.”
“That you do not love me?” he said, and his voice was strangely quiet.
“Oh, Tom, I believed I did. It all seemed so different when we used to meet, knowing that everyone was against us. It seemed so romantic, so—so nice, and now ...” Her voice trailed off miserably.
“And now, now, sweet,” and his voice was filled with tenderness and yearning, “now I fall far short of what you hoped for.”